Family of the Heart (7 page)

“G
od in heaven, save us!” Wind tore the words from her mouth, slapped at her long, sodden skirts, whipped them into a frenzied flapping that knocked her off her feet. A sulfurous yellow split the dark, flickered, streaked downward with a sharp crack. The planking of the deck heaved, shuddered. The ship tilted. She groped for something to cling to, found only emptiness, slid. Lightning flashed, threw flickering light over a gaping hole where the ship’s rail had been, over Aaron clinging to the broken end and reaching for her. She stretched out her hand.

The world exploded. Brilliant light blinded her. Thunder deafened her. She fell through a black void, battered by wind and rain. Frigid water swallowed her, drowned the scream trapped in her throat.

Sarah jerked upright in bed, heart pounding, pulse racing. She wrapped her arms about her ribs and rocked to and fro, shivering, waiting. The terror of the nightmare would pass. It always did. All she had to do was wait. Alone.

Tears surged. Why did Aaron have to die? She had prayed. She had—No. There was no sense in going over the same old questions. There were no answers. Sarah shoved her feet into her slippers and pulled on her robe. Even its quilted warmth couldn’t stop the cold inside. Her teeth chattered. Her body shook. Her fingers trembled so she could not turn up the wick of the oil lamp. If only Ellen were here to bring her some hot tea. Oh, she
hated
the night! The darkness, the solitude, the long hours with nothing to distract her from her thoughts.

The nightmares.

Sarah shuddered, rubbed her upper arms, looked toward the door to the right of the fireplace. A longing, too strong to be denied, welled. She snatched up the lamp, opened the door and started down the narrow winder stairs, her shadow floating on the wall beside her. A step creaked. Another. She paused, listened to hear if Nora woke, then continued down into the kitchen.

The darkness of the large room swallowed the meager light of her lamp. She put it on the center table, removed the globe and lit the candles on the table and in the sconces that hung over the fireplace. The dark withdrew to shadowy corners. Another shudder shook her. She glanced at the hearth, yearned for a fire, but had never started one. Hot tea would have to do.

She rubbed her cold hands together and shivered her way to the big, black iron stove. The weight of the teakettle surprised her. It fell from her shaking hand, clanged against the stove. She gave a guilty start and glanced toward the stair door. All was quiet. Defeated, she put the kettle back in place. The stove was cold. So was she. Cold, and helpless, and inadequate, and lonely. She could not even make tea. Why ever had she sent Ellen home?

Sarah fought the constriction in her chest for breath. The answer was simple—because it was easy to be brave during a warm, sunny afternoon. But in the darkness when the memories returned and the nightmare came…Tears burned behind her eyes, clogged her throat. She clenched her hands and fought them with all her strength. She was tired of tears. Of grief. She wanted to be happy again. How would she ever be happy again?

Clayton opened his door a crack and listened. Yes, there it was again. The squeak of a step on the winder stairs. Dim light flickered against the wall. A sound of stealthy movement reached him. He tightened his grip on his pistol, eased the door open, pressed into the shadow against the wall of the landing and looked down. A frown drew his brows together. Sarah Randolph was descending the steps, light from the lamp in her hand illuminating the downward spiral, glinting on the silky mass of brown hair loosely restrained at the nape of her neck and spilling down the back of her quilted robe. The sight of her struck him breathless.

She paused, glanced toward her open door. The terror on her face froze him in place. She blinked tears from her eyes and continued on her way down the stairs.

Clayton rushed into his room, put the pistol away and pulled trousers on over his cotton drawers. What could be wrong? What could have put that look of terror on Sarah Randolph’s face? He shoved his arms into his shirtsleeves, fastened a few buttons and tucked the tails into his pants on the way to the door. Barefoot, he started down the stairs, driven by a need to help her. To protect her. From what? How could he help her? Would she even want him intruding into her personal life? He slowed his steps, approached the kitchen door cautiously.

“Was it tea you was wantin’?”

Eldora.
Clayton stopped, stood undecided. The sight of his half-fastened shirt and bare feet determined his path. He turned and made his way back up the stairs to his room. The unexpected sight of Sarah Randolph on the stairs had given him a jolt that left him shaken. He was better off staying as distant from her as possible.

He left his door open a narrow slit, finished buttoning his shirt and pulled on his socks before he stretched out on top of his bed—in case. Eldora would call him if he was needed.

A clanking sound, a soft murmur of feminine voices from downstairs filtered in through his slightly open door. Moonlight flowed through his windows, a haunting silver radiance. Clayton frowned. There was something about moonlight that made him lonelier. He folded his hands on his chest and stared at the ceiling overhead, ignoring the ache in his heart, dreading,
hoping,
that his housekeeper would call him.

“Was it tea you was wantin’?”

Mrs. Quincy!
Sarah’s throat constricted. She couldn’t speak to answer the woman’s question. She compressed her lips to hold back the rising sobs and nodded.

The housekeeper waddled forward, the hem of the blue robe she wore swishing back and forth around her slippered feet dusting her path. She neared, squinted up at her from beneath the mobcap covering her gray hair and gave a brief nod. “Havin’ a bad night, are y’? Well, there’s no problem a good hot cup of tea can’t make better.” She removed the tool from the wall, lifted a front plate from the stove, set it aside and nodded toward a box on the floor. “Hand me some of that kindlin’.”

The shock of the enjoinder stabbed through her emotions. Sarah stared. At the woman’s second nod, she came to herself, bent and gathered a handful from the box.

The housekeeper crumpled newspaper, stuffed it in the stove and placed the kindling on top. She reached up and turned a knob protruding from the side of the chimney pipe. “Now light this spill from that candle and set this a burnin’ whilst I fill this kettle.”

Obviously, she was not going to be coddled. Sarah quashed a twinge of offense at not being pampered when she was so upset, took the long, slender piece of wood and hastened to obey. In a moment the kindling was blazing. The warmth felt wonderful on her icy hands.

Mrs. Quincy returned with the filled kettle, glanced at the fire. “You’ve got that goin’ proper. Now add a few of them sticks o’ wood. An’ lay ’em in easylike. You don’t want sparks to fly up and singe your hair.” She waddled away to the cupboard.

Sarah did as she was bid. The wood caught. The fire blazed.

The housekeeper returned with a tin of tea in her hand, nodded approval, lifted the iron plate back in place and set the water over to heat. She reached up and fiddled with the knob on the chimney pipe again. “We’ll need cups ’n’ saucers.”

Sarah moved to the shelves on the wall and took down two cups and two saucers, surprised to find her hands were no longer shaking. She took an experimental breath, then another—the pressure in her chest had eased. The activity had made her feel better than being babied ever had. She looked toward the housekeeper who was spooning tea into a china pot. “Thank you for asking me to help, Mrs. Quincy.”

The housekeeper nodded, put the cover back on the tin of tea and gave it a sharp rap with the heel of her hand to seal it. “Most times when I’m feelin’ plagued by somethin’ it helps to keep busy. Keeps me from stewin’ on the trouble.” She pointed toward a cupboard with pierced tin doors. “Sugar’s in the brown crock. I’ll fetch some cream.”

“Do you want to talk about what’s botherin’ you?”

Sarah weighed the offer, shook her head. “No. Thank you, but…I want to forget.”

Mrs. Quincy nodded, stirred a spoonful of sugar into her tea. “I know how that can be.” She reached for a piece of the bread and jam she’d prepared for them. “Mind if I ask how you come to be a nanny? I mean, you could sell one of them gowns of yours for more than a year’s pay, so…”

“It is not for the money. It is—” Sarah blinked, looked down at the cup in her hand. “I lost someone I—” she swallowed hard, cleared her throat “—someone I shared a dream with.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. She put down her cup and wiped them away. “That dream is gone and I need something to do. I need a purpose. Something to give—” She bit down on her lip, shook her head and picked up her cup. Her hands were trembling again. She put the cup down before she spilled the tea—waited for the commiseration, the comfort Ellen always gave her.

“Whatever your reason, ’tis a blessing for little Miss Nora you’re here.”

Once again shock pierced through her emotions. Where was the sympathy? Sarah lifted her head, looked across the table at the housekeeper. “Truly?”

“Truly.” Mrs. Quincy picked up the plate of bread and jam, offered it to her. “That little one wasn’t never out of that room till you come. An’ she cried all the time.”

“How
awful
for Nora.” Sarah shook her head at the offer of bread. Mrs. Quincy held the plate in front of her. She met the housekeeper’s steady gaze, took a piece of bread. Still that steady gaze. She took a bite. Mrs. Quincy put the plate down.

“’Twas that, but she’s laughin’ and playin’ like a young’un should now. An’ that’s thanks to you. You’re a blessin’ for her, all right. I wasn’t sure that would be the way of it when you come—bein’ late an’ all. I figured you was another one like that uppish Miss Thompson, thinkin’ only of her own self.” Mrs. Quincy’s gaze again steadied on her. Her lips curved in a rueful little smile. “I reckon I wasn’t too welcomin’.”

Amusement bubbled. Sarah’s lips twitched. “You were so stern I almost turned away and ran back to Ellen.” Curiosity flared in the housekeeper’s eyes. “Ellen’s my lady’s maid.” The amusement fled. Sarah sipped her tea, watched Mrs. Quincy’s expression change to that of someone who had received an answer to something they’d been wondering about.

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t scare you off. It’s nice havin’ another woman around the place.”

Another shock. “One as helpless as I am?”

The housekeeper chuckled. “You’re learnin’. You made the fire and helped set up our tea, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I did.” A warmth of satisfaction spread through her. Sarah smiled and took another bite of her bread and jam. It suddenly tasted wonderful.

“Tomorrow’s Sunday. I was wonderin’ if you’d like to go along to church with Mr. Quincy and me?”

Bitterness surged. The bread turned sour in her mouth. Sarah reached for her tea to wash away the rancid taste.

The housekeeper fixed another look on her. “Lucy goes to her church later on, so she can stay with the child.”

That robbed her of the excuse that had readily formed on her lips. Sarah searched for another. Nothing suggested itself to her. She looked into Mrs. Quincy’s eyes and gave up. The woman would see straight through any subterfuge and she didn’t want to tell her the truth. Sarah sighed. After the housekeeper’s kindness tonight, she couldn’t simply refuse her invitation. “Thank you, Mrs. Quincy. I shall be pleased to accompany you. What time must I be ready?”

Mr. Quincy handed the reins to a young lad, moved up the steps and opened the door. Sarah glanced at the sign fastened to the white clapboard building—Fourth Street Chapel. Reverend William Herr—and followed Mrs. Quincy inside. Curious looks trailed their progress down the aisle. Sarah smiled and nodded a polite greeting to those who caught her gaze.

Quincy opened the door of the pew on his right.

A middle-aged man looked her way, smiled, bowed his head.

Quincy frowned and stepped back so they could take their seats. “At his age Granville should know church is not the place for tryin’ to get a leg up on the rest of the young bucks in the city.”

The warmth of a blush crawled into Sarah’s cheeks at the muttered remark. She gathered the skirt of her gold, watered-taffeta gown, moved to the far end of the pew and seated herself, feigning interest in the stained-glass window beside her in an attempt to ignore the stares aimed her way. Mr. Quincy followed his wife inside and closed the door.

“Can’t abide Sherman Granville. Thinks every woman he sees will tumble all over their own feet runnin’ to him just ’cause he owns half the county!”

“Hush, Alfred. You’re in church.”

“Don’t make it any less true.”

“Amen.”

The whisper came from the pew behind them. Sarah snuck a peek from the corner of her eye as Alfred Quincy chuckled low and swiveled his head around. “Mornin’, John.”

A distinguished-looking gentleman with gray hair smiled. “Good morning, Quincy…Mrs. Quincy—” he glanced her way “—miss.”

A man entered from a side door, stepped to the pulpit on the platform and bowed his head. “Almighty God, Thou who thunderest from heaven, yet speaketh in the tenderest, softest voice to Your servant’s hearts. Speak to us this day, O God. Touch our hearts, our minds, our spirits with Your words, that we may be renewed in that which is Your will and purpose. Amen.”